‘It doesn’t feel right with Archie here, under the same roof,’ he said by way of explanation.
‘Is it more unseemly to be seen comforting another man’s wife or to be seen in a dalliance with a housemaid?’
Raven sighed. She was never going to forgive him for leaving her, was she? For not doing what Archie had done.
‘The world of medicine is not forgiving,’ he said. ‘It is a snake pit. You have seen that. There are people who would use any weapon they can to do down their rivals.’
‘Why don’t you just admit it?’ she said. ‘You did not love me enough to suffer the disapproval of men such as James Matthews Duncan, men you do not even respect.’
‘There is more to it than that,’ Raven replied, looking down at his clasped hands. ‘There is a part of my nature that I fear, and I have battled to tame it. Simpson always tells his students: “Let your own professional character be the one great patron to whom you look for professional advancement.” I have been trying to cultivate a professional character that invites trust and respect.’
‘And you needed to leave me in order to do that?’
‘I thought that I did.’
‘You fear you have the devil in you,’ she said. ‘You told me that once. The truth is, Will Raven, I admired you because of your devilment. But now I can see you are afraid to be yourself.’ She sighed as if weary. ‘All men have the devil in them to some extent. The ones I distrust are the ones who would deny it.’
SIXTY
arah felt a twinge in her side again as she waited at Dr Fowler’s door. It passed as it had on previous occasions, but she wondered if she should have let Raven take a look at her after all.
There was no reply to her repeated knocking. He must be out on visits, she thought, and wondered if it was worth waiting to see if he returned. Perhaps she should have delayed her visit until Raven could accompany her – he had been detained by a patient – but she had felt in need of air and was gravely concerned about the unsuspecting soul that might currently be under Mary Dempster’s care. She felt a spit of rain and decided she would return later rather than risk standing outside in a downpour. The walk home would be exhausting if her skirts and petticoats became too wet.
She had turned to walk away when she saw Dr Fowler approach, striding hurriedly along Barony Street.
‘Dr Fowler, I wonder if I might speak with you, if you have a moment?’
‘Mrs Banks, isn’t it? You were here with Dr Raven, Simpson’s assistant.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Do come in.’
He opened the door and led her inside. She was struck once again by the peculiar nature of his home. The rooms she glimpsed as she passed them were a strange mix of the spartan and the cluttered. Piles of books, ill-sorted collections of objects. It was a self-curated museum of a strange and solitary man’s life. She wondered where he kept his leeches, the new ones he had presumably recruited to his service. She had to suppress a smile as her mind conjured up an image of their much-mourned predecessors beneath a row of tiny headstones in the garden.
He showed her into the small parlour at the back of the house where they had spoken before.
‘You work for Dr Simpson too, if I recall?’
‘Yes. I do.’
‘You are a nurse?’
Sarah answered in the affirmative. It seemed easier that way.
‘You were here asking about a nurse, weren’t you? Mary Dempster.’
‘Yes,’ Sarah said.
He seemed alert, sharper than she remembered. Not quite as doddering as the first impression she had garnered of the man.
‘Did you find her?’
‘We have been trying to do so but have yet to track her down. The address we found in the Post Office directory was that of her sister. Mary lives there too, but she has not been at home.’
‘She is working, I presume.’
‘Yes, but her sister couldn’t tell us where. I was wondering if you could tell me who she has worked for recently, who you have recommended her to? Perhaps she is back working with one of them now.’
‘That is certainly possible. When it comes to care of the sick, reputation is everything. People want someone they know and trust.’
He went over to a table in the corner and spent a few moments locating a blank piece of paper. He noted down some names and addresses, the scratching of his pen the only sound in the room. On the edge of the table Sarah noticed the manuscript she had seen on her previous visit.
‘There have been others, no doubt,’ Dr Fowler said as he handed the scrap of paper to her, ‘but these are the ones that come most readily to mind.’
‘Thank you,’ she said. She pointed to the manuscript. ‘I see you have been turning your hand to prose. Are you writing a novel?’
Dr Fowler grabbed the pile of paper and held it to his chest, clutching it to himself as though afraid she might try to take it from him.
‘Have you been looking at this? How much have you read?’ he said, suddenly hostile.
Sarah hurriedly apologised. ‘I didn’t mean to pry. I merely caught a glimpse of it the last time I was here.’
Dr Fowler looked sheepish, as though aware that he had over-reacted.
‘What a poor host I am,’ he said, conspicuously changing the subject. ‘Do forgive me. I must get you some refreshment.’
Without waiting for a reply, he bustled out of the room, taking his manuscript with him, and returned with a glass of cordial which he insisted that she drink. Sarah took a tentative sip.
‘I would drink it all if I was you,’ he said. ‘You will be grateful for it later if you intend to visit all the houses on that list. Uninvited guests are seldom offered tea. This is Edinburgh, after all.’
She did not understand this last remark: she was never done serving tea at No. 52, whether guests had been specifically invited or not.
Dr Fowler seemed to sense her confusion and smiled.
‘That was a little joke,’ he said. ‘Though one born of a weary doctor’s experience making house calls in this city. I am from Glasgow originally. Hospitality is a little more forthcoming there.’
He seemed to be more amenable now that his manuscript had been safely stowed somewhere. Perhaps he is starved of company, she thought. She saw this as an opportunity to ask more about Mary Dempster, but she knew she would have to tread carefully. She dared not share her suspicions with this man who had recommended the nurse to so many patients.
‘I believe Mary Dempster is from Glasgow,’ she said.
‘I deduced as much from her accent. She told me a little about her upbringing, the tremendous obstacles that she has had to overcome. She and her sister were orphans. Her sister ended up in the asylum after becoming a prostitute, which is a testament to how it might have gone for poor Mary had she not been adopted. It is most impressive, I think, her choice of occupation, her compassion for others.’
‘And yet being a nurse exposes her to further suffering, and to death. So many of our patients die, and so many of Mary’s patients have died recently. How does she cope, I wonder, when she has had to endure so much herself?’
Sarah had hoped to provoke some acknowledgement or comment about all the recent deaths, some of which Dr Fowler had been involved with himself. But he did not respond in the way she had hoped.
Rather, he seemed energised.
‘It is something one learns to come to terms with. Sometimes the best you can do for your patient is to give them a good death. It can be a great blessing. It is often said that it is a privilege to be present at a birth, but I believe that the same could be said about a death. In both cases we bear witness to the moment when an individual passes from one realm to the next. At that precise instant we are closer to God than we will ever be until we die ourselves.’
Sarah felt a little disturbed by this pronouncement and decided it was time to leave. There was something distinctly odd about this man, and she could not bring herself to ask any further quest
ions. He was unlikely to discuss the details of the patients he had attended with her anyway. She would leave that to Raven. She downed what remained of the cordial by way of indicating that her visit was at an end.
‘Thank you for your time,’ she said as she made for the door.
‘Until we meet again,’ Dr Fowler replied, following in her wake.
Sarah rather hoped that they wouldn’t.
SIXTY-ONE
arah was finally on her way home to Albany Street when she began to feel weak. She was now, as he had predicted, grateful for the drink Dr Fowler had given her. She had walked further and for longer than she intended, trying to visit as many of the addresses on Dr Fowler’s list as possible.
She had spoken to people in two households who had employed Mary Dempster and had visited three others where nobody had been home. By the last of these, she had resolved to follow Raven’s example and have calling cards printed.
She wondered what she would put on them. Should she be Mrs Sarah Banks or Sarah Fisher? A part of her thought it would be disloyal or ungrateful to reject Archie’s surname after he had done so much for her. And yet, it is what he wanted, and therefore the truly disrespectful thing would be to refuse his wishes. She knew that it hadn’t always been this way: a wife taking her husband’s name. Not in Scotland anyway. Perhaps it was time to revisit the old ways of doing things.
She was making her way back up from Stockbridge, where she had spoken to a Mrs Haldane, who told her how Mary Dempster had nursed her sister back to health after a bout of enteric fever. Sarah had concocted a story about trying to find the nurse to give her a gift bequeathed by a recently departed relative, in gratitude for services rendered. Mrs Haldane was effusive in her praise of Mary, hardly supporting their theory that she was in fact a ruthless killer.
Before that, however, she had spoken to a Mrs Guthrie, who was the cook in a house where Mary had also been employed. The lady of the house, Mrs Bennet, was from home and in her absence, Mrs Guthrie told Sarah how Mrs Bennet’s ‘illness’ was in fact a result of her late husband being quick with his fists. She had recovered under Mary’s care, but her husband had fallen ill and died shortly afterwards.
Mrs Guthrie’s description of his deterioration was familiar. A sudden illness to which he quickly succumbed. Delirium, coma and death in rapid succession. This brought her back to the unresolved issue of how this might have been achieved without arousing suspicion. Why kill some patients and not others, and why risk killing so many in one family, as in the Trinity case? The questions continued to mount up and they seemed to be no closer to answering any of them.
As she ascended the slope of Dublin Street, around the corner from her house, she passed a grocer’s shop which had a variety of vegetables displayed in the window. She stopped to look, giving herself a moment to catch her breath.
She thought about Mrs Lyndsay’s cooking and hoped that Archie would be tempted to eat a little of it. A forlorn hope perhaps. It was unlikely that he would have the strength to sit through meals with the rest of the family.
She thought too of Mrs Lyndsay’s resistance to change, her adherence to the established order of things. Like her recipes, she understood what worked and feared altering any of the components. She seemed to think that the whole of society worked that way too.
There was a pile of potatoes in the middle of the window display. Sarah was reminded of the garden at Lochend and the plant that she could not identify. The plant that was still flowering so late in the season. The plant that Martha had said was potatoes. She had accepted Martha’s suggestion but now she realised that Martha had been wrong. The plant was not potatoes, though it did look similar, because it was from the same family.
It was deadly nightshade. Atropa belladonna. Atropine.
She saw now why they could not identify the poison Mary was using from the symptoms being exhibited. It was because she was using more than one.
Raven had said she was too cunning to use morphine or opium as the signs would be obvious: pinpoint pupils a clear indicator. Atropine dilated the pupils. Each drug counteracted the signs of the other.
Other things began to slot into place, other symptoms and signs that could now be explained: the thirst that Nora complained of at the Infirmary; the delirium, the muscle twitching, the grasping at phantoms that had afflicted other patients. All effects of excessive amounts of atropine.
As she hurried home, she thought about what she had learned about Mary Dempster: her following the apothecary around the wards of the Infirmary, her willingness to learn and her disregard for the prescribed doses of the medicines she administered. She was not using a poison as such, but killing her patients with excessive amounts of prescribed medicines.
Rounding the corner onto Albany Street, Sarah felt suddenly light-headed but put it down to the excitement of her revelation. As she opened her front door, however, she began to feel her legs give way. Staggering into the hallway, spots began to form at the periphery of her vision, fading to blackness as she collapsed onto the floor.
SIXTY-TWO
t was starting to rain as Raven contemplated the impressive front door of Quinton’s home on Castle Street, and he could not help but wonder what part a talent for forgery might have played in the book-keeper’s affording such a handsome address. It was not envy that had motivated him to come here, though; rather, his concern for a man who had no idea how deep and treacherous were the waters he was wading into.
It was Mrs Quinton who opened the door, a baby in her arms. The child looked sleepy, blinking at the light from the street, though Raven could not discern whether it was in the throes of waking up or nodding off.
From what he could see of the hallway behind her, the interior promised to be as grand as Sarah had described it. Raven wondered whether Quinton was not so new to the worlds of fraud and criminal enterprise, in which case his warnings were like to fall on deaf ears. Nonetheless, he was bound to try, and he had a duty to all at Queen Street.
‘This must be Rochester,’ he said, offering Mrs Quinton a broad smile.
She did not reciprocate and seemed wary of his familiarity.
‘Indeed. And you are?’
‘Dr Raven, assistant to Dr Simpson. I need to speak to your husband.’
She glanced behind briefly, then back at Raven, anxiety in her expression. He could tell she was thinking about telling him Quinton was not present, but she knew she had given herself away. One does not look to check when one knows someone is from home.
‘Now is not convenient,’ she said instead.
‘Believe me, the urgency of this matter trumps all convenience.’
Mrs Quinton did not formally invite him in, but rather stood meekly to the side so that he might step past her.
As he strode through the various downstairs rooms in search of Quinton, he was presented with part of the reason she was reluctant to admit him. The place was bare. It looked like it had been looted in a siege. Sarah had made mention of expensive fixtures and furniture, yet it appeared they hardly had a stick.
As Raven swept into the drawing room, James Quinton rose from where he had been squatting on the floor in front of the fireplace. He wore a look of indignation at the effrontery of Raven inviting himself inside, but Raven recognised it for a mask, as he had glimpsed Quinton’s face before he donned it. It was the visage of a man caught naked: exposed, vulnerable and ashamed.
Mrs Quinton followed Raven into the room, Rochester beginning to cry in her arms.
‘What are you doing here?’ Quinton demanded of Raven, a share of his anger directed at his wife for admitting him.
‘It is imperative that we speak regarding your employer.’
‘And I will be at Queen Street in the morning. You have no business importuning me at my home.’
‘Your other employer,’ Raven clarified. ‘Mr Flint.’
Quinton’s haughty indignation was extinguished. He looked instantly wan.
The child’s crying grew noisier.
‘Leave us be,’ he told his wife, his voice quiet but urgent.
‘What is the matter?’ she asked, her concerned tones barely audible over the growing volume of Rochester testing his little lungs.
‘I said leave us in peace,’ Quinton commanded, louder now.
Mrs Quinton looked back and forth between her husband and Raven, then departed, closing the door. Raven guessed she would have waited behind it to eavesdrop were it not made impossible by the child.
Raven looked around the empty room, conspicuously bereft of furniture.
‘Are you preparing to host a dance?’ he asked.
‘What do you want?’ Quinton replied tersely.
‘There is no thief at Queen Street, is there? But there is one at Castle Street.’
Quinton swallowed, unable to mount a response.
‘I gather you are having some financial difficulties. It would also be my deduction that you have borrowed some money from a mutual acquaintance.’
‘I have no idea what you are talking about,’ Quinton said, but his response lacked conviction. He looked cornered, as though afraid of where the next threat might be coming from. His secrets were known. The roof was falling in on him.
‘I was lied to,’ he said, veering from denial to explanation. ‘I was offered the lease on this property by a friend. Or someone I believed to be a friend. Soon after arriving here we learned that everything had been purchased on credit, and the rent was in arrears. Unbeknown to us, in taking over the lease we had also assumed the debt, and all of it was gathering interest. We had creditors at the door almost immediately.’
‘Why didn’t you explain your situation to Dr Simpson? He could have helped.’
Even as he asked this, Raven cringed a little. He had been in the self-same position once, and had proceeded just as unwisely, but this was why he wanted to help.
‘His new book-keeper, telling his new employer that he is in debt and has been duped after failing to do his due diligence?’ Quinton asked. ‘How would that have looked?’
The Art of Dying Page 28
